


Dáin, Lord of the Iron Hills

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [42]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dáin POV, Gen, The meeting in Ered Luin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 05:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12248382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Before the Unexpected Party in Bag End, Thorin Oakenshield travelled north, to a meeting of the Lords of the Seven Clans. Among them sat Dáin, cousin-kin, and Lord of the Iron Hills, the settlement of Thrór’s younger brother.This is his story.





	Dáin, Lord of the Iron Hills

Staring at his cousin – Thorin had always been a master of speeches; a skill Dáin had often envied – Dáin already knew what the rest of the Lords’ Council would say to the King of Durin’s Folk in Exile.

“The plan is ludicrous!” King Hargo – King in name, mostly, the Stonefoots were a small clan and he would defer to King Ranvé, who held the true power over the Orocarni from her seat in Red Peak – exclaimed. Dáin had to agree, though he kept his silence, seeing what it cost his cousin to do the same. Why had Thorin not spoken to him before this meeting? At least, he would not have been so blindsided by the sudden proposal.

“Reclaiming Erebor would take an army larger than the one any of us could muster alone,” King Ranvé said, as always calm in the storm of the tempers around her.

“Which is why I wish to call all of you to our cause,” Thorin replied, “the Wizard, Tharkûn, has urged me to march on Erebor, and the portents read for the venture agree that it is time.” Several dwarrow scoffed at that, and even Dáin had to agree that the art of reading portents – apparently cousin Óin had the skill – was a diffuse and inaccurate science at best. Cracking a stone to tell the future had never seemed wholly sane to him, but then again, when last he met cousin Óin, he had not struck Dáin as being wholly sane. Brilliant, mind, in his field, but one did not need to be entirely sane to be a gifted healer. As always, the thought of healers made him think of his beloved Thorunn, and he missed a few heated arguments thinking about her smile, the way she would stroke her belly when the pebble moved. He ruthlessly forced his attention back to the goings-on around him, before the gently smiling dwarrowdam in his head could be replaced with the pale and bloodless corpse she had become mere hours after little Thorin’s birth.

“How do you propose to slay the beast?” Lord Jarrin– a Broadbeam from the northern parts of Ered Luin, Dáin remembered, and technically their host – asked snidely. “What weapons do you now possess that you did not have in the glory days of Erebor, which – need I remind you – did you little good then?” Dáin felt his own temper flare at the remark.

“I suppose a wizard would help, Lord Jarrin, as would knowing what enemy you mean to fight,” he replied, before Cousin Thorin had even opened his mouth. “After all, the armies of Erebor had no time to prepare, and still their sacrifice allowed so many to flee the dread wyrm.” Lord Jarrin looked fit to protest, but Dáin found unexpected support from the gentle tones – hiding a core of mithril, he knew from experience – of King Ranvé.

“My Lord Dáin is correct, Lord Jarrin, and – as I have – so you must have heard tell that the invasion of Erebor took place in a very short window of time.” She said, her rebuke soft, but nonetheless stinging. “I would wager – again, based on the stories I have heard – that the warriors fighting had no more than their everyday weapons and armour; and – at least in my Realm – guards do not commonly wear the armour suitable for an army of warfare.”

“I saw it only from afar, coming home from a hunting trip, King Ranvé,” Thorin replied lightly, “but no, I do not believe Smaug spent more than an hour subduing my grandfather’s warriors and slaughtering our people before he had gained the Mountain – and the Arkenstone.” Dáin’s heart bled for those lost, even as he stared at his cousin in horrified sympathy. No matter how many times – or with how much detail – he heard the tale of the coming of Smaug, he would never experience less than profound dread at the thought of seeing the wyrm in person. And yet, his cousin, a green lad of only 24 winters, had gone back _into_ the Mountain, trying to find his family, to get as many people out as possible. Dáin did not think he could have been that brave. He was called brave, of course, for his actions in Azanulbizar, for killing the mighty Azog, but Dáin knew better. _That_ had not been bravery; that had been incandescent rage at the death of his kin, his _father_ , combined with more pain than he had ever experienced before resulting in a need for everything to just _end_. He didn’t even remember striking the killing blow, though he remembered the glow of flames from within the Gates terrifying him more than ever before. He shuddered. His had been the voice that stopped King Thraín from entering ancient Khazad-dûm, _his_ words had swayed the Lords and commanders from pursuing the fleeing orcs… and he still wondered if his cousins held a grudge for it.

“The matter must be put to a vote,” Princess Isavænn proposed. Dáin had been surprised to see her accompanying her amad, but the white-haired Heir to Red Peak had proven to be a keen conversationalist; his discussions with her during dinner the night before had led him to consider opening trade of iron to those further away than Red Peak, using the Orocarni merchants as middlemen for selling his people’s wares to the Men of the far south. King Ranvé nodded.

“As always, the vote must be unanimous, if King Thorin is to call any armies,” Lord Hargo added, and Dáin already knew what _his_ vote would be.

“I recuse myself from this decision,” Dáin said, “as King Thorin is also _my_ King. I will abide by the will of the Council.” Thorin mastered his face quickly, but Dáin saw the grimace that flashed across his face. Once more, he wished Thorin had broached this subject _before_ making it the final topic of the talks; there was no way Dáin could stand behind him like this, and Thorin had to know it. Dáin would not risk his people against a dragon, not even for all the wealth in Erebor.

 

The outcome was just as Dáin had expected: a resounding no. Some – like King Ranvé, whose throne had once been attempted usurped by her own grandmother and uncle – were sympathetic to Thorin’s plight, while others, like Jarrin, were almost gleeful at the thought of denying his plea. Privately, Dáin felt certain that Thorin had expected this very outcome when he pitched his proposal, but he could see that the rejection still stung. Dáin understood; he did not wish to send his people off to a battle he was certain they could not win, no matter what portents that old coot Óin claimed to have read.

“I would have you stand by your oaths-“ Thorin began, but he was interrupted by the shrill voice of Lady Bjarga, the Firebeard representative; Thorin might be High King of Durin’s Folk, which comprised the Longbeards along with most of the Firebeard and Broadbeam descendants of those who had fled the Breaking of the Blue Mountains, but some families had not fled their ancient homes, and Bjarga and Jarrin were the leaders of the communities left in the northern range of Ered Luin.

“Those oaths were sworn to the _holder_ of the Arkenstone!” she cried, to general nodding. Dáin scowled at her, but she was too pleased to be getting one over on Thorin – some grudges could be kept so long that they became part of a people, Dáin thought – whom she had always resented; a grudge harking back millennia, and truthfully aimed at those the left-behind Firebeards and Broadbeams felt had abandoned them, rather than the Line of Durin which had offered them shelter and accepted them under the rule of the Mithril Throne.

“Lady Bjarga has a point,” King Ranvé replied mildly, her dark eyes glittering with what Dáin would have sworn was amusement. “A caveat, then, King Thorin.” The corners of her eyes were crinkling as the golden clasps in her blue beard revealed her smile by moving slightly, “If you do manage to obtain the Arkenstone, you may call upon the armies of the Seven Fathers… and we will answer.” Her pronouncement had the expected effect of starting a loud argument, but Dáin felt a smidgen of hope. Thorin’s face gave nothing away, but Dáin had often imagined being in his older cousin’s boots, and his heart broke for the stoic Dwarf before them.

“I thank you for your time.” Thorin bowed and left quickly.

Thorin bowed stiffly, taking his leave in the confusion. Dáin followed. Even though King Ranvé – her status as the ruler of the richest Kingdom of the Dwarrow afforded her a fair amount of excess influence – had pronounced that they _would_ honour their old oaths, Dáin felt sure as mithril that possession of the Arkenstone would do about as well as a glass hammer in a forge at persuading the leaders of the other Dwarven Clans to stand behind Thorin and aid him in routing the dragon. Privately, he felt equally sure that his stubborn arse of a cousin was perfectly aware of that little fact – as was King Ranvé, but perhaps she had a plan for such an eventuality; Dáin wouldn’t put it past her shrewd mind – and Thorin was probably equally aware that the actions of his predecessors had – if not _everything_ – then probably a lot to do with the Council’s refusal. The endorsement of a wizard meant little to leaders who remembered the lamenting after Azanulbizar, the culmination of seven years of warfare that had truthfully caused them nothing but losses. At the time, they had all agreed that Thrór ought to be avenged; after all, they were Dwarrow and their tempers ran hot and fierce. At the time, bringing death to the orcs who had slain the King of Durin’s Folk had been a matter of pride to all Dwarrow. Thrór had been a symbol, a symbol of a time when Erebor was still theirs, and in the wake of the tragedy that was Smaug, the race had felt keen sympathy with the once-mighty Dwarf. Some had remembered Thrór’s father, Dáin’s death, and although dragons had plagued their race ever since the awakening of the Seven Fathers, the abandonment of the Grey Mountains still rankled. Grandfather would have gone to war with them, Dáin was sure, if he’d been well enough, but his lung-sickness made travel in winter impossible; instead, the command of their forces had fallen to his adad, who had died, and grandma Katla, who had refused to let him go off to war alone.

“Thorin!” Dáin shouted, running after the dark-haired cousin who seemed intent on walking all the way back to Thorinuldûm tonight. “Thorin, wait!”

“What do you want, _cousin_?” Thorin almost spat the word, making Dáin wince. He was sympathetic, but he could feel the flames licking at the edge of his temper. His refusal in Council did not mean that he did not wish to see Erebor reclaimed, to see once more Durin’s Line stand proud in its halls, nor that he begrudged his cousin the dream of sitting on the Raven Throne.

“You are determined to do this, cousin?” he asked quietly, catching hold of Thorin’s blue-clad arm, trying to keep a lid on both their tempers. Thorin simply nodded.

“It is time, Dáin. I have to at least try. Our people are dying in Ered Luin, dying by inches every year. I must do something.” Dáin knew it was true; the broken mountains were no fit home for good Dwarrow, and the mines were nearly exhausted. He knew better than to offer aid, however, knowing that his cousins were too proud to accept what they considered pity. “Even if I must kill the Dragon myself, it would be worth it to see my people’s children with the round cheeks they ought to have.”

“Then I wish you luck, cousin.” Dáin said, squeezing Thorin’s arm. “If you make it, send word to me. My army will keep your mountain safe until they can arrive. I daresay you may find yourself with a population increase if you manage to regain Erebor.” Even though a great part of the diaspora had been forced to wander the wilds of Dunland and seek work in towns of Men before Thorin had managed to settle them in the Blue Mountains, many had joined his own population, too. He knew that if he sent out the call that the time to return to Erebor was nigh, a mass exodus would happen in the Iron Hills, and he could not send that many to their doom. Better to wait than to offer false hope to those still yearning for the green stone of Erebor, he thought. Thorin chuckled, and Dáin considered it a small measure of forgiveness; his words had not been meant as a jest, and Thorin wouldn’t consider them so, either.

“It is home, Dáin,” he murmured, “and not just for me.” Dáin nodded. He might not understand entirely – he had never even seen Erebor, but the longing in his cousin’s voice was unmistakable. Dáin sighed. Stealing a stone from a dragon seemed impossible with an army, but protecting a mountain from looters and the like until the rest of their kin arrived was not only his prerogative, it was his duty. His own father, Náin, as well as grandfather Grór had told him stories of Erebor’s splendour, and Dáin had always wanted to see it for himself, even if he could not imagine leaving his _home_ to live there. The Iron Hills were more than enough to keep him busy, and his people were happy. Of course, more beautiful crafts could have been made with the gems and the metals mined in Erebor, but on the whole, living in land that would pretty much only produce iron ore was hardly a detriment to the creative urges of their race. His people boasted the best weapon and armour smiths, the best metal sculptors, and what their base material lacked in value and delicacy, it more than made up for in durability.

“Just… try not to die, will ya?” Dáin clasped Thorin’s arm, and when his cousin finally looked up, the fire that burned deep in his eyes seared itself into Dáin’s heart. Thorin’s blue eyes, so alike his own, burned with the fire of almost divine purpose. “If anyone can do it, it’s you, ye mad bastard.” Dáin could not help but feel hopeful, against all odds. Thorin had always been more than a little reckless. “Go get that Mountain, cousin. **Mahal tadnani astû, sanzigil tamkhihi astû.**[1]” Thorin nodded, returning the strong grip.

“I will, cousin. I will even invite you to my coronation!” Thorin laughed, before setting off once more. Dáin looked after him, shaking his head in fond exasperation.

“Mad bastard,” he muttered to himself, before turning on his heel, hurrying towards where his party was housed.

 

* * *

 

When the young Dwarf caught up with Thorin Oakenshield, he could hardly speak for awe of being in the company of such a hero, but he managed to deliver the parcel and letter he carried, staring at Thorin as he read it.

 

_Cousin,_

_I know there is little time before you set off, and less provisions you would accept for your journey, but I cannot see you off to such danger without offering at least a little protection. I meant it as a Name-Day present, but you may as well receive it now._

_Congratulations(early) on becoming another year older, and give my best to the lads when you see them, as well as my cousins._

_Again, I implore you, when you reach the mountain, send me word and I WILL come._

_Your cousin,_

_Dáin, Lord of the Iron Hills._

 

Thorin frowned, opening the cloth-wrapped parcel. The scales glinted in the low sun-light, each made from the best quality steel the Iron Hills could boast, and crafted by a master armourer. Thorin smiled. Slipping out of his coat, he pulled his old mail over his head, and let the new gift take its place, marvelling at the perfect fit.

“Tell Dáin thank you,” he said, when the young Dwarf held out his sur-coat for him. “Tell him to keep an eye on the horizon.”

“Yes, Thorin Uzbad,” the youngling stammered, bowing nervously, holding Thorin’s old mail as though it was a precious treasure. Thorin swung himself back onto Beryl’s saddle, a light smile playing around his lips.

“Go on, now, lad,” he murmured, waving the young squire off with as much kindness as he could muster.

 

* * *

 

 

When he was handed the old shirt of mail – it had been kept in as pristine a condition as Thorin could manage, his Craft-Spark would never have allowed otherwise, even if his life had not been depending on it through many travels – Dáin smiled, sending a quick prayer to the Maker and the Stone Mother that his cousins would find safety on the roads they chose.

 

When he returned home, he gave orders to have a dwarf stationed looking west, towards Erebor, and began the tremendous task of making at least his personal gangbuh[2] ready to march with little advance notice; though he tried to keep Thorin’s Quest secret, knowledge slowly trickled through the ‘Hills, and a sense of almost-incredulous hope spread among those members of Durin’s Folk who still remembered the gentle voice of the Lonely Mountain.

 

 

[1] Mahal guide you and mithril find you. (Good Luck)

[2] **gangbuh** (”march-company”) - regiment - a force consisting of 10 maznakkâ (= 490 dwarrow), plus ten officers.


End file.
